It’s November and I am still looking
for ways to begin this year’s
half-hearted conversation with life –
paperback, second-hand, dog-eared,
highlighted at the wrong places by
the enthusiastic radar of another reader.
Nirvana comes not just with
the readiness to dissolve with life’s
immense plenitude this pact of rebirths
but with the commitment to carry
to the end this cessation of the senses
on the world’s corrugated skin.
I watch the confident November sun
stroke the languorous spine of the sand,
kiss its moist lips, push for a heady orgasm
under a sprawled, gold canopy of light.
The palm fronds flutter in indifference, the
wasps buzz drowsily, the air looks elsewhere.
-30-
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